THE SOWER

 Sitting in a porchway cool, 
 Fades the ruddy sunlight fast, 
 Twilight hastens on to rule— 
 Working hours are wellnigh past 
 
 Shadows shoot across the lands; 
 But one sower lingers still, 
 Old, in rags, he patient stands,— 
 Looking on, I feel a thrill. 
 
 Black and high his silhouette 
 Dominates the furrows deep! 
 Now to sow the task is set, 
 Soon shall come a time to reap. 
 
 Marches he along the plain, 
 To and fro, and scatters wide 
 From his hands the precious grain; 
 Moody, I, to see him stride. 
 
 Darkness deepens. Gone the light. 
 Now his gestures to mine eyes 
 Are august; and strange—his height 
 Seems to touch the starry skies. 
 
 TORU DUTT. 


 

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